


Mr. Blue Sky

by gloss



Category: Captain America
Genre: Chromatic Character, Community: kink_bingo, Disabled Character, M/M, Superpowers As Sex Toys, Wings, suspension play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-22
Updated: 2011-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:26:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hey you with the pretty face,/Welcome to the human race.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Blue Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Takes place after the death of Captain America. Thanks to G. for brainstorming and editing. Title and summary from ELO. Please see below for content notes/warnings.

Bucky Barnes knows all. Wise beyond his (pretty numerous) years, wit quick as a bunny, he'd like you to believe he knows the score. As Sam finishes up his account of last night's adventures (mid-level trafficker refusing to roll and name names), Bucky snorts hard.

"Should've made him talk," he tells Sam and simultaneously raises his hand toward the waitress, ordering another two beers. His metal fingers glint under the ugly neon signs -- St. Pauli Girl, Meister Brau, Knickerbocker Dark, beers no one has drunk, let alone brewed, for decades.

Sam sets down his beer and shakes his head. "Nothing doing, man. The bastard wouldn't say so much as his name, so --"

"Dangle a man high enough, he'll tell you everything he knows," Bucky says and takes a good long swallow. "More, besides."

Sam leans back in his chair. "What is this, favorite interrogation techniques of the Cheka?"

Rolling his bad shoulder, Bucky scowls down into his drink. "Just common sense."

"Huh," Sam says. His tone is light as he tips back his chair. Knowitall Barnes can't take the heat for very long at all. Sam should be nicer, but he can't help stringing Buck along for just a while longer. "So how high would be high enough?"

"Dunno," Bucky says sullenly. He squints at the label on his bottle, picking at it with one ragged nail. "High."

"How high?"

"Christ, I don't --" Bucky looks up, face twisted, then glances away when he realizes that Sam is grinning at him and adds, softly, "Fuck you."

"Is that any way to talk to your partner?"

The bar (Bucky's choice; only he could find the last un-gentrified white working-class watering hole in Park Slope) is dim, but the tremor that passes over him, tightening up his posture, drawing in his shoulders and setting his jaw, is bright and clear as day.

He's a lone wolf. He'll insist on that fact until the sun falls out of the sky.

But he's right, too. Sam doesn't have a partner.

Steve is dead. They both saw him die, together.

"Not for nothing but --" Bucky swallows a couple times, his Adam's apple over-large in his skinny throat. "It works, that's all."

"So you've mentioned," Sam replies.

Bucky blinks rapidly. "Have I?"

"A couple-twenty times, yeah." Sam taps his fingers and cocks his head. "Makes a man wonder why it might be on your mind."

Bucky purses his lips and looks away. He's not half so subtle as he'd like to believe; Sam has had twelve year old wannabe gangstas in his office who are tricksier.

As he stands, Sam offers Bucky his hand, then pulls him to his feet. "C'mon, then."

Bucky's expression tightens into the one Sam privately refers to as _suspicious street dog_. "Where?"

"Up," Sam replies and smiles. He keeps smiling, slow and easy, until Bucky relaxes fractionally. "Let's see what you've got."

*

The day is blazing hot and the city's filthy air clogs their mouths and stings their eyes as Sam flies them upward. He has his arms under Bucky's armpits, crossed over his chest, and his wings are beating hard. Bucky's head hangs down, lank hair crowding his eyes. The nape of his neck is pale, a little grimy. In the time they've been working together (since Steve), he has learned to go nice and limp when Sam breaks out the wings and mask.

When they're over the worst of the hazy smog, Sam slows his ascent and makes a wide, lazy circle over Flushing.

"So, soldier," he says, raising his voice, "tell me everything you know."

"Huh?"

Sam wraps his left arm around Bucky's chest and frees his right hand. Bucky shifts in his hold, tilting downward; his entire body tenses alongside Sam's.

"How's it go?" Sam ruffles Bucky's hair with his free hand and banks into the wind. "Dangle a man --"

Bucky twists and jerks in Sam's embrace. Finally, squirming hard, he catches Sam's eye and scowls. "Not _me_. Someone else."

"Yes, you."

Gulls wheeling in from the ocean scream around them; their hunger and anxiety shriek, doubled, inside Sam's mind and down his spine. His grasp on Bucky loosens, just for a moment. He rolls to reassert their equilibrium and drags Bucky, his head lolling, up his side. Something hard digs briefly into Sam's thigh; he assumes it's Bucky's metal hand.

He's wrong. The look on Bucky's face -- hooded eyes, parted lips -- and the tight twist to his body says otherwise.

 _Yes, you_. The truth of his own words assaults Sam. He clasps Bucky tighter and brings his right arm across Bucky's waist. His fingers curl into his waistband.

This is how Bucky died the first time: wild blue yonder all around, explosion, fall.

This is what he wants.

This is, given the erection in his pants and the shallow breath coming out his mouth, what he _needs_.

"Not gonna let you fall," Sam calls.

Sweat shines across Bucky's cheeks, running in branching rivulets down his throat. His back arches again.

Sam tries again. "Not gonna --"

"Don't have to." Bucky tips back his head, digging it into Sam's chest. His eyes are slits, glittering and hard. He grimaces and something shifts in Sam's hold.

Bucky's prosthesis starts to work free; Sam is holding it as Bucky's body tilts away, free. His mouth opens like he's singing.

"God damn it!" Sam tips left and hauls Bucky back into his grip. His wings beat hard as he scrambles against the yaw.

Finally, he has Bucky against his chest, panting in his arms, the prosthesis hanging free inside Bucky's sleeve. The sweat on Bucky's neck is close enough to taste when Sam yells at him. "The fuck are you doing?"

Bucky hangs there, limp as a rag, chest heaving.

"This what you want?" Sam shakes him slightly, lets him pitch away.

Bucky's mouth works silently. His legs pump uselessly like a man swept away by floodwaters.

"Is it?" Sam yells, anger a bellows in his chest.

His legs move faster as Bucky arches his back. Sam's right hand slips across Bucky's sweaty waist. When he grazes Bucky's crotch, the erection is still there, hard and straining.

"Or this?"

He firms his touch on Bucky's erection, swiping it with his palm until Bucky rolls his head back, eyes closed.

That's more a _yes_ than any word he'll ever get from the kid.

He isn't angry any more. He isn't sure if he was ever angry so much as frustrated, driven to shout just to know he'd be heard.

"It should've been me," Bucky finally says, almost too low to hear, wheezing between strained breaths.

He might mean back in the war, or last spring, over the North Sea or right on the courthouse steps.

"Yeah," Sam says, then amends that to, "Well. Anyone else."

Bucky looks down, and Sam follows his gaze. His feet dangle, tiny and useless, toes digging into the clouds. "That the Atlantic?"

Sam pulls them into a headwind, twirling Bucky like that carnival ride with swings as they go. "More like Long Island Sound."

They hang there, small specks in the sky, breathing in tune. Bucky bites his lower lip as his hips twitch and cant up. Against Sam, his body is a hot, coiled thing, sparking anxiety and unspoken need.

When Sam mouths the nape of his neck, Bucky shouts and pumps his hips, then stills. His skin tastes sour and hot and gritty, city air and missed showers. Sam runs his teeth down one tendon and Bucky shudders. His good hand curls around Sam's forearm and squeezes hard enough to leave a mark.

Hanging on for dear life.

"You know I'm not going to drop you," Sam says against Bucky's ear. He licks the outer curve for emphasis, then nips the soft lobe. Bucky shudders in response.

The heat that had been drafting through his chest is tighter now, hotter, more focused. Every twitch and shift Bucky makes rubs against Sam's dick and he is already far more than half-hard.

Bucky knows that Sam's not letting go. He knows Sam is safe, Sam's got his eye on him, Sam's never going to let him come to harm.

Steve would kill them both if that happened.

If Steve were here.

And since Steve isn't here, Sam is left with -- this kid in his arms, need sweating out of every pore, breath close to sobbing.

"You know I'm not," Sam says again, then adds, "you know I got you. So go for it."

Before he was anything else, Bucky was a soldier. He's foolish and headstrong, stubborn and pigheaded, prone to wild guesses and whacked-out hunches, but he can't _not_ hear an order.

Sam switches up his hold, dragging Bucky a little farther up his chest and turning them away from the breeze. Bucky's body is all hard, sharp bone and ropy muscle.

Right now it's drawn up tight as a bowstring, the apex at his crotch. His pelvic bone, the sweaty taut skin there, catches a slice of sunlight when Sam tugs up his shirt and thumbs open the button at Bucky's fly. The pressure beneath the fabric radiates heat. When Sam pauses, cupping his hand over the rise, Bucky sighs. The sound is gusty, drawn-out, and, eventually, as it tapers off, Bucky's hand covers Sam's own, then dislodges it.

"Look down," Sam says as Bucky pulls his dick out. "Just -- look."

He does.

He never looks away from the fall that will not come.

They dangle together, Sam's wings spread all the way open, casting a red-tinged shadow over them. Sam's own erection pulses in sympathy with Bucky's jerking, desperate pulls on himself; on each downstroke, as he bumps back against Sam, Sam grinds himself against the small of Bucky's back.

He can guess what Bucky's thinking, hanging here, helpless but safe, but that's not Sam's concern. It's really none of his business.

His business is just this, to hold tight and fly high.

The city and water and clouds below them are ignorant of their activities. Even the birds passing do not pause; Sam listens to their thoughts, and they rarely swerve from the constant repeat of _food food food rut rut rut food_.

No one, nothing, sees or cares.

They're high enough to have disappeared, high enough to be dead.

And that fact is enough to make Bucky shout and cry and come all over his hand, shaking like a leaf in Sam's arms. His limbs kick out, then fall back in place, his stomach hollows out with the effort to breathe, and for a moment he weighs less than that leaf. Closing his eyes, Sam rides the flood of sensation, his toes curling and dick throbbing.

He digs his chin into Bucky's bad shoulder and nudges Bucky's hand upward until he can meet it with his mouth. He licks it clean, sucking on the meat between thumb and hand as his wings rustle into a slow, spiraling descent. He tastes the sky and clouds on Bucky's skin as well as the chlorine sting of come. Bucky turns his head blindly, twisting to get closer, and his mouth is open and ready, yearning wide, when Sam slides his tongue down his jaw.

He thrusts lazily, almost affectionately, against the narrow, hard muscle of Bucky's thigh, rubbing himself off as they kiss and the clouds rise to meet them.

Bucky's pants are trapped around his upper thighs, his dick swinging free like a turkey gizzard, when Sam brings them down softly on the roof of one of the outbuildings at Cloisters.

"Can't take you anywhere," Sam says, snapping his wings closed and tugging off his cowl. The breeze off the trees is cool on his sweaty face. "Look at you."

Bucky yanks up his pants and looks sidewise, smirking, through the fall of his hair. "Could say the same of you."

Sam skins off his leggings, then balls them up and tosses them at Bucky. "You could, but you won't."

As he catches the leggings, Bucky's smirk slices open his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Contains: edgeplay; lack of explicit consent; reference to suicidal ideation


End file.
